The Thin Man Washes the Dishes
by lookninjas
Summary: A sequel of sorts to BEDTIME STORY, in which the author's romantic impulses totally overpower her logic.
1. Chapter 1

The Thin Man Washes the Dishes

Simple things. Quiet things. He no longer regretted his decision, although it had taken him some time to come to terms with domesticity. He'd spent almost an entire day on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make his choice. It was not an easy one. But there was little else he could do. The decision had, in many ways, been made as soon as he spoke to Dylan. He simply had to learn to accept it.

The hardest part had been revealing himself to the young one, his daughter. It was Dylan's idea that he visit her on her birthday, as a sort of a present. So, at midnight, a birthday card trembling in his hand, he sat down on Brandy's bed. He shook her foot to wake her, as Dylan did. The girl blinked sleepily, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes. It took her some moments to realize that there was a strange man on her bed. He held out the card, praying that she wouldn't scream. Instead, she took the card, looking up at her mother. "I'm dreaming," she said.

Dylan smiled, shaking her head. "You're not dreaming."

Hesitant, unwilling to startle the girl, he reached out to touch her face. She raised a wondering hand to his fingers, tracing the thin bones. "You're really here," she murmured, and he nodded, smiled, trying to encourage her. "Are you staying?"

Strange how at the moments that words really matter, they refuse to come. He nodded, and Dylan spoke for him. "He's staying, if you want him to."

The girl laid her fingers along his cheekbone, and he shivered inside. He had never loved anyone the way that he loved her. She traced the bones of his face, as if she wanted to memorize him, and he let her. He didn't know what else to do. He was terrified that the slightest motion on his part would break the spell, and she would realize how much she hated him, and cast him aside. She ought to hate him. He had abandoned her. Instead, she threw her arms around him with sudden passion and buried her face in his shoulder, half-laughing, half-sobbing. Grateful, unworthy, he clung to her, inhaling the scent of her hair. She smelled clean and young. Much as he loved his daughter, he'd never held her before. The moment she was in his arms, he realized how powerful such a love could be. He would never let anyone harm her, ever.


	2. Chapter 2

Still, there were things to consider. For fifteen years, Dylan and Brandy had lived with neither husband nor father. To have one reappear after such a long absence was bound to cause comment. Then, of course, there were the Angels, who were still Dylan's family. They deserved to know, deserved an explanation. For a few days, he stayed hidden away inside the house with his girls, his loved ones, getting used to their ways, getting to feel safe. Then, and only then, did Dylan ask her friends to come see her.

When they arrived that evening, he and Brandy were sitting in her room. He could hear their voices coming from the living room. "You have to tell us!" Natalie said, her high voice bright as birdsong. "Something's definitely up with you. You're… you're glowing."

Dylan must have made some protesting sound, because when Alex spoke, her voice was low and dry. "Trust me, you're glowing," she said. There was a burst of laughter, sweet and happy. He found himself shaking again, and Brandy gripped his hand. He had fought them once, had been their enemy. They had no reason to accept him now.

"There's someone…"

"I knew it!" Natalie cried, delighted. More laughter.

"There's someone who wants to see you." But there was discomfort in Dylan's voice, mixed with the happiness. She was worried, too. For a moment, he was not sure he had the strength to stand. He knew that he had made a mistake, that this could never work, that he should go, out the window… Brandy squeezed his hand, and he turned to look at her. No, he couldn't abandon her again. Not now. He leaned on her as they stood and went down the hallway to the living room.

The happy, open faces of Natalie and Alex went wary and dark as he and Brandy entered the room. "The Thin Man," Alex said, and he stared down at his shoes. He should not have come. He didn't deserve this life, didn't deserve their trust or anyone's. It would have been better if he had gone away years ago and never come back.

"That's not his name," Dylan said, her voice shaking with some barely-controlled passion.

"Anthony?" Natalie asked, and the sweet, shy hesitancy of her voice compelled him to look at her. She was studying him, head cocked, bright blue eyes sharp. "The nuns said they called you Anthony. Is that your name?"

He nodded, feeling his daughter's firm grip on his hand, giving him strength. For years now, he had existed without any sort of a name at all. He invented them when he needed them, then discarded them when he was done. Anthony was as good as anything, and better than most. It had, after all, been given to him for a reason.

Alex was not convinced; she folded her arms and leaned back on the sofa, dark eyes narrowing. "I don't understand this," she said, and he dropped his eyes again. "What is he doing here?"

"He's here because of us," Dylan said. "Because of Brandy and myself." Brandy said nothing, but slipped her arm around his waist, leaning into him. So tall she was. Already taller than her mother, and strong and slender.

"Dylan told us," Natalie said. He knew, without looking, that she was speaking directly to him. "She told us that you had been following her, visiting her. She told us that Brandy was your daughter. But you disappeared, and never came back. Why did you go? Did something happen?"

"I…" The first word came out so quietly that he himself could scarcely hear it. He moistened his lips with his tongue and tried again. "I was… afraid."

He glanced up to see Alex and Natalie openly staring at one another. They had never heard his voice before. "You remember during the H.A.L.O. case, when I ran away," Dylan said, picking up the story for him. "Seamus threatened to hurt you, and I… panicked."

Dawning comprehension on Natalie's face. "Someone threatened to hurt Dylan," she said.

He shook his head, sweeping his gaze from Natalie to Alex to Dylan, and then back again. "They threatened to hurt all of us?" Alex asked, her voice softening for the first time. He nodded, suddenly miserable. "So you went away, trying to keep us safe."

"He didn't know I was pregnant," Dylan explained, giving him a brief, unreadable glance. "I didn't know I was pregnant at the time."

"You went away," Natalie said, and he could feel the heat of her gaze, feel it like she was reading his mind, "but you couldn't stay away. You had to keep checking on her, to make sure that she was safe."

"You've been watching them all this time," Alex finished. The girls sank back into the sofa, lovely faces unusually thoughtful, studying him. He didn't dare to look at them for very long, but stood, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him, like a schoolboy waiting for punishment. Finally, Alex spoke again. "Dylan, he's a killer."

"Not…" It was hard for him to make the words come. He bit his lip, took a deep breath, and tried again. "Not anymore."

"I did some research," Dylan added. "The last killing that fits the Thin Man profile happened almost seventeen years ago. Four members of Tanaka Yakuza were found dead in a car three blocks from my old apartment." He watched her stride away from him, barefoot and confident, and pick a manila envelope up from the coffee table. It was battered, looked to be at least a few years old. How long had she been investigating him? She came back, handed the envelope to Alex. "These were found in the car."

Alex and Natalie looked at one another, eyebrows up. Finally, Alex opened the envelope and slid the pictures out. There was still a spot of blood on the corner of one of the photographs. He didn't have to see them to know what they were. He'd already seen them once. Alex handed the pictures to Natalie without a single word.

"So I went back further into the records. After he killed Emmers, the Thin Man pretty much fell off the face of the Earth. The only killings that could have anything to do with him appear to have happened in connection with cases that we were working on. Remember the Layne kidnapping?"

Natalie shook her head, still staring at the photographs she held in her trembling hands. "How could I forget? I would've died if someone hadn't taken that sniper out at the last second."

Alex's arms came unfolded, and her wary expression softened into thoughtfulness. "The Raskolnikov Case," she said. "They hit me from behind, knocked me unconscious. When I came to, they were gone."

He saw the question unasked in her eyes, and nodded. He remembered it well. He remembered the sniper, too. He remembered all of them.

"There were eight, altogether," Dylan said. "Eight times when one or all of us should have died, but somehow survived. Then the Yakuza. Then nothing for seventeen years. That's a long time."

Natalie slid the pictures back into the envelope, staring off into the distance. Though she scarcely seemed to have aged at all when she smiled, her solemnity showed the wisdom time had given her. "You protected all of us," she said. "You were our enemy."

All he could do was shrug. He had been their enemy, that was true. But things had changed since then. He had changed since then.

"I know that we were enemies once," Dylan said, "and I know that this is hard for you, but I really, really need to feel like you're okay with this. You're my family. But Anthony…" She drifted over to his other side, reached out and clasped his hand. "Anthony is my family, too."

The long silence that ensued was broken, as usual, by Natalie. "You're right. I mean, it is hard. I mean, it's not hard exactly, but it's… it's weird. But if you're sure about this, Dylan, that's all that matters."

He glanced at Dylan, caught her swallowing back tears. "I'm sure," she said.

Alex shook her head. "Still falling for the bad guy," she muttered. And had Natalie not playfully punched Alex in the shoulder, and Dylan not broken into a wide grin, he might have thought that she had decided not to trust him after all. But, apparently, she had.

At a nudge from Brandy, he let go of his girls and took a few steps forward, holding out his hand. Alex took his hand cordially enough, but there was still a certain suspicion in her dark eyes. Natalie, however, bypassed the handshake in favor of a hug and a warm kiss on the cheek. "Welcome to the family, Anthony," she said.

Still, he felt the faint current of unease between them, and suspected he would feel it for a long time. And, when he was honest with himself, he knew that they really had no reason to trust him. So he resolved himself to be patient, and tried very hard to be good. In time, perhaps, they would come to accept him.

For some time, the Angels were the only visitors to Dylan's house. She knew that he was not accustomed much to society, and was careful not to stress him unduly. It was hard enough for him to get used to living with other people, dealing with their clothes on the floor and their messes in the kitchen. He'd never shared his bed with anyone else. But he was desperately eager to please, and this, combined with the wonder he felt in being allowed to see and touch and hear his daughter and his Dylan every day, helped to smooth things over.

About a fortnight after the Angels' first visit, Max Bosley came. The boy was now a man, of course, his features no longer soft, but his head was still crowned with a mop of curly hair. He gave Anthony a strange look when he entered, almost but not quite recognizing him. "Dylan?" he asked.

"Max," she said, trying to smile. "I want you to meet Anthony."

Max stepped forward, shook hands. He had a good grip. His eyes were more skeptical now, but Anthony could still see the boy in the face of the man. "It's a pleasure."

"We used to call him the Thin Man," Alex prompted, when it became clear that Max hadn't quite put all the pieces together.

"The Thin Man." Max repeated the words in a soft voice, almost like he was praying. He studied Anthony's face for a moment. "You saved my life." Anthony dropped his eyes, shrugging helplessly.

"I don't understand this," Max said. "I thought… I mean, no one's seen him since he fell off the roof during the H.A.L.O case."

"Well, that's not exactly true," Dylan said. "I… saw him a few times after that. Then he vanished again, and I didn't see him for over sixteen years."

Unlike some of the other Bosleys, Max was sharp, quick. He made the connection immediately. "You're Brandy's father," he said, and Anthony nodded again. "I've seen you." This made Anthony look up, startled. "After Mother Superior died. You came to the Mass, and you sat in the very last pew. You knew all the responses, but you didn't take Communion." Max was indeed observant. Although Anthony had contemplated accepting the Host, out of respect for Mother Superior, he had, at the last second, decided against it. It wasn't right for one so full of sin to receive the Body and the Blood of Christ. So he stayed in his pew. "You were at the burial, too, but you stayed away from us, at another grave."

He'd gone to her grave only after everyone else was gone. He hadn't wept, but it was hard. She'd always been so busy, running the orphanage and the order, but she'd always made time for him, the thin, shy, sullen child, the one who never spoke. She had given him a name.

Max watched him for a long moment, shaking his head in amazement. "So… So you're back. Are you staying? I mean…" He laughed, but it wasn't funny. "I guess I'm still a little bit confused."

"He's back," Dylan said, reaching out for Anthony's hand. He twined his fingers in hers, grateful for her silent support. "And he's staying. I wanted you to know."

"Well." Max collapsed on the sofa, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Thanks. I mean, I know you guys felt for a long time like you couldn't tell me things, and maybe you couldn't. I mean, I was only a kid. But I'm glad that you're telling me now." He sighed. "Of course, it's different for me. Anthony saved my life. It's not like… The other Angels, I mean. You did tell them, didn't you?"

"I did," Dylan said.

"And they're okay? I mean, they're not going to…"

"Everything's fine, Max," she said, her voice very gentle.

"Okay. Okay." Max laughed again; it was a little nervous, but it had something more of humor in it than previously. "You don't talk much, do you?" he asked, glancing up at Anthony, who only shrugged. "Isn't it hard? Like, how do you order at restaurants? Do you just point at the menu, or what?"

As Anthony struggled to find some sort of answer to this question, he heard Dylan starting to giggle. He knew now that the worst was over. He had been accepted into their family, unusual though it was.


	3. Chapter 3

It was at about this time that the neighbors began to whisper in earnest. Although Anthony had not so much as left Dylan's house for over two weeks, they were bound to notice the tall, dark figure gliding from room to room behind the curtains. Nor had it escaped their attention that Dylan and Brandy's usual routines had been severely altered. It was time for Anthony to make his presence known. He began to accompany Dylan on a few errands, running to the store for groceries, making deposits at the bank. He stood a little behind her at all times, trying to dodge the curious glances. He didn't like so many people staring at him. But Dylan did her best to shield him from scrutiny, dodging nosy inquiries with polite evasions. His sudden appearance, his resemblance to Brandy, were simply explained - yes, he was Brandy's father. Yes, he had left them. But he'd never forgotten, and after years of soul-searching, had put fear aside and returned to his family.

He knew, of course, that many of the neighbors would not believe this story, although it was the truth. He knew that there would be rumors, could even guess what some of them might be. But none of the rumors ever reached his sharp ears. The neighbors viewed him with suspicion, even dislike, but he did his best to be polite. He could never manage to talk to them, but after time, he learned to meet their eyes, to nod and to smile. After a while, he began to feel that they were growing accustomed to him. A few of the neighbors, primarily elderly ladies, even began to act as though they were rather fond of him. They admired his shyness, his willingness to help, his quiet manners. More than one teased Dylan about "the strong, silent type." She laughed fondly at the phrase, and squeezed his hand. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and summoned up a bashful smile. It wasn't much, but it was a beginning.

Everyone called him "Anthony" now, except for Brandy, who sweetly called him "Dad." It made him uncomfortable at first, but he grew to like it. He was, after all, a different person, and deserved a different name. And this life, his Anthony-life, was better than anything he'd ever known. He loved to sit in the kitchen with them bustling around him, laughing and joking, making dinner. He loved to wash the dishes, knowing that he was doing his share, being useful. And he loved the evenings, playing Scrabble with Dylan while their daughter did her homework. He had never done such things before, and so he had never realized just how much he was missing.

Then there were the nights, laying in Dylan's bed, her body warm and tender in his arms. Sometimes they would talk, or rather, she would talk. He would answer her in whatever way felt best to him, occasionally speaking, usually letting his gestures speak for themselves. Other nights, she would be as silent as he was, and they spoke only with their bodies. He loved her regardless. She knew him so well.

But, happy as he was, he couldn't quite sleep. The slightest sound would send him hurtling out of dreams and into full consciousness, staring into the darkness, trying to piece things together. He was at home with Brandy and Dylan. He had heard something. Was there danger? Should he go find out what it was? Nor was he the only one awake. Dylan would lie, quiet but tense in his arms, until she had sorted out the source of the noise. "Raccoons in the garbage," she might say, or "Wind in the trees." If it took her too long, he would slip out of bed, pulling a robe on, and she would follow him, tugging an oversized t-shirt down over her head.

So far, the worst they'd come across was Brandy herself, having woken needing to use the bathroom or get a glass of water. She'd squint sleepily at them, shaking her head. "You guys," she would mutter, stalking back to her room. Dylan would turn to him, shrugging, and lead him back to bed.

"I still can't get used to it," she confessed sometimes, when they were once more safe under the covers, and she was in his arms. "It's stupid; I mean, I've been retired for years, and nothing's happened. But I just… I don't know. I can't get used to it."

He would kiss her hair and smile in the darkness. It was good to know that he wasn't the only overprotective one in the family. It made him feel more like he belonged.

It was some time before Brandy felt quite comfortable bringing her friends home again. Her first visitor was Charlotte, Natalie and Pete's daughter. She looked like her mother, particularly around the eyes, but her hair was darker, like her father's. And, of course, all three smiled so easily, laughed so easily. Anthony was still nervous when he saw Brandy and her friend coming up the walk, but not desperately so. It was easier to resist the urge to flee. Dylan was sprawled on the sofa across the room, flipping through the latest Scientific American. She pretended that she wasn't watching him, but he knew better.

He tensed a little when the girls came bouncing through the door, laughing and giggling, but maintained his composure with an effort. The house seemed so much louder now; their noise was deafening. Charlotte didn't hesitate, but skipped straight towards him, holding out her hand. "You must be Brandy's dad," she said, flashing that easy smile. "I'm so glad to finally meet you!"

Heart pounding and tongue tied, he managed to shake hands, but couldn't speak. Charlotte spoke for him. "I've heard so much about you - Brandy talks about you all the time, and I asked my mom, and she didn't tell me much, because she doesn't like to talk about the old days much, but I managed to put a few things together. You know, the detective thing, it's like, practically genetic. Speaking of genetics, we were studying alleles today in class, and it was absolutely fascinating. Did you know that -"

Brandy cut her off with an elbow to the ribs. "Speaking of alleles, Charlotte, I thought you were going to help me with the..."

"Oh, right! Yeah, of course!" Charlotte giggled, still smiling. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Sanders!" Then the girls were pounding down the hallway to Brandy's room. The door slammed, and a hush fell over the living room.

He collapsed back into his chair, limp with relief. "Well," Dylan said, glancing up from her magazine. "That's Charlotte. Kind of scary, isn't it?"

Anthony broke into a wide smile. His shoulders shook , and he almost laughed, though he made no sound.

Exhausting as Charlotte could be, she was probably the best way for him to get used to teenagers. She never seemed to notice that he didn't seem to speak, perhaps because of the constant stream of words coming from her own mouth much of the time. Nor did she seem at all inclined to judge him. He rather doubted that Charlotte had ever judged anyone in her life. There was no need for explanation - she knew the truth about everything. She understood, in the way that Brandy's other school friends could not.

Weeks passed. The neighbors still watched him, but they no longer stared. He took over much of the driving chores, as Dylan was apparently on the verge of having her license suspended for speeding tickets. Sometimes, he even drove Brandy to school, and she was not too ashamed to kiss him on the cheek before sliding out of the car. He still had yet to go out to a movie, or eat at a restaurant, or even to walk more than a few blocks with his girls, but he was making progress. He was beginning to feel safe. He was even beginning to almost feel as though he belonged.

One afternoon, Dylan came in from the garden, a battered hat shoved low over her face, a smudge of dirt on her knee. "Shouldn't you be cleaning your sword?" she asked. He laid his copy of Crime and Punishment aside and gave her a quizzical look. "Toby's coming over this afternoon to work on a history project with Brandy."

He smiled, seeing her meaning, but shook his head. It would be unfair of him to frighten the boy like that. He was frightening enough without the blade. "If you're sure," Dylan said, and shrugging, walked away. He felt a pleasant kind of ache every time she left the room. He didn't like having her out of his sight, but he was glad to know that she'd been with him, even for only a little while. At least he could have her some of the time. It wasn't always, but it was enough. Still smiling, he returned his eyes to his book, although his thoughts were of Dylan, and Brandy of course, and this mysterious Toby.

As their first meeting approached, he began to feel a little anxious. But he stilled his features and stared resolutely at his book. He should not assume things about this Toby. He was probably just an ordinary teenage boy, nothing to fear, nothing to worry about... No wonder Dylan had recommended the sword. Still, it was better for him to be without it right now. The more he waited and thought, the more his thoughts began to oppress him. He'd learned long ago that it was not wise to be both nervous and armed.

"Hi, Dad!" Brandy chirped, opening the door. Toby followed her, and Anthony relaxed at once. The boy was plainly terrified. In fact, it looked almost as though he was attempting to hide behind Brandy's small, slim frame. Anthony stood up and held out his hand, and after a long, fidgety silence, Toby finally stepped forward. His skin was clammy, palms sweaty.

"Hi," Toby croaked, his voice cracking. He was, after all, only a boy, not far from childhood. "I mean... it's... uh... it's nice to meet you, Mr. Sanders."

Anthony nodded gravely, releasing the boy's hand. He was aware of his daughter watching him, blue eyes sharp, aware that she was waiting for him to say something. Unfortunately, he found himself not at all in the mood to speak. Finally, Brandy rescued her would-be suitor. "Come on," she said, raising an eyebrow at her father. "We need to figure out what we're going to do for the visual presentation." Toby followed her down the hallway, though he kept glancing back at Anthony. To be honest, the boy had gone a bit gray.

"He doesn't like me," the boy muttered, believing himself out of earshot. "He didn't even say anything."

Anthony found himself having to bite down hard on his lip to keep from laughing out loud. When he'd finally regained his self-control, he drifted out into the garden to look for Dylan, closing the door noiselessly behind him. As long as the children thought he was inside, they wouldn't get into much mischief.

He slipped up behind Dylan, who was busily weeding amongst the sunflowers, and stood watching her, silent, until she realized he was behind her and whirled, face grim. He couldn't help but smile at her surprise, and after a few seconds, she smiled back. "I still think you should have brought out the sword," she said. His only reply was to bend down and kiss her. He was happy, knowing that he would help her with the garden, and that Toby would leave, and the girls would cook dinner, and afterwards, he would do the dishes. Simple things. Quiet things. He no longer regretted his decision.


End file.
